


Meadows of Heaven (Perhaps, in six thousand years)

by Halja



Category: Il sole invincibile: Eliogabalo il regno della libertà - Claudia Salvatori
Genre: Angst and Porn, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Love Triangles, M/M, Multi, Polyamorous Character, Polyamory, Songfic, Threesome - F/M/M, Visions, and reincarnation, random musings on religion, vague references to drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 10:06:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15337554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halja/pseuds/Halja
Summary: Varius Avitus Bassianus, Severina, Hierocles: one last time, as if Rome wasn't crumbling all around them.





	Meadows of Heaven (Perhaps, in six thousand years)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vana/gifts).
  * A translation of [Meadows of Heaven (E forse, tra seimila anni)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3627636) by [Halja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halja/pseuds/Halja). 



> A translation of a _really_ old work. One I had never really thought about translating and was not written with that option in mind, so expect awkward, overlong sentences. Oh, well. Hope it still make an enjoyable read anyway!

 

 

  

_My acre of Heaven_

 

 

When he feels everything’s coming to an end – when his god falls silent after granting him one last vision, and his one, beautiful mother is only three imperfect women, and Rome’s quiet rumble troubles both his waking and sleeping hours – he calls them to his rooms one last time, together. Perhaps he does it because, although their ancestors came from the brightest, farthest stars, sometimes even the Bassianids are just men.

The Indian herbs burn in the braziers, intoxicating, sweet as honey, as dangerous as the deadliest poison – but that doesn’t matter, now that Avitus needs only perfume and a friendly face.

They drink mint-flavored wine, dark red like freshly-spilled blood, and they crack jokes as they laugh in the face of fate and death. But there’s grim, harsh shadows hiding inside Hierocles’ blue eyes, and light shivers rake Severina’s thin, pale hands.

The two of them end up rolling dices for Avitus’ time and attention, as if he really were one of the prostitutes he’s played over the years, back when still he liked to try and offend that fake modesty Rome so loved to cloak herself in as she affected the naivety of a frightened virgin, and he always did it with the nerve and ease and wit typical of his now-lost family. Avitus indulges them and laughs along with them, waving his hands about as if he could still hear the bright, inappropriate jingle of bracelets shining with gold and gems on his wrists, and he watches them from half-lidded eyes as if his face was still painted in exotic rouge.

Then, he turns the tables on them. He smiles as he makes his suggestion, and he hopes that just this once, they’ll understand. He turns his gaze on Severina, and then, uncertainly, to Hierocles.

The two people Avitus loves and wants most in the world look each other in the eye, carefully, studying, as if they were seeing each other for the first time. Avitus monitors this exchange, enthralled. Blue as light and clear as a sunny sky; green still gleaming despite everything that’s happened, burning like a fire. Ice and fire, man and woman, engaged in a calm discussion, joined like they’ve never really been.

They’re beautiful.

Then, the spell breaks away, and they turn to look at him. In their eyes is everything Avitus needs to know.

Severina’s small, pink mouth drops on his own, covering it, her soft, thin lips pressing chastely. Hierocles’ muscled arms hold him possessively in a warm, strong embrace, and the solid, comforting weigh of his chest pushes against his back. Severina’s downy hair wrap around them both like softest and lightest of cloaks, red as the fires of Vesta and El Gabal; Hierocles’ teeth mark his neck with a hundred bruises scarlet and purple, hasty yet never truly able to hurt him. His wife’s boyish, slender body – so skinny and brittle, after her illness – writhes all over him like the frenzied dance of a mad snake; his husband’s, man-like, thrusts against him to a brutal, steady rhythm.

Avitus keeps his eyes open the whole time so as to be able to remember these moments, to know he was loved before they’ll force him to run, before he will have to drive them both away to save them. But he knows Hierocles’ eyes are closed, while Severina’s look only to him.

Yet, when even this thing ends, the woman’s long, white finger and the man’s stronger ones brush for a few moments, right over Avitus’ chest, right there where the emperor’s heart still beats.

Avitus closes his eyes, then. He thinks of their small divine triad, joined by the stars, together again in six thousand years and after a terrible number of lives. He dreams of their hands holding his own at the same time, of a second of bliss like this one but stretching on to eternity, of a world where the priests will be able to understand the God of the Mountain and the Christ and the Deus Liber all at once, while Avitus will be free to play with his wooden chariots once again.

Perhaps, in six thousand years from here, it will happen.

 

 

_I fall asleep_

_And see it all_

_Mother’s care_

_And color of the kites_

 

 

 


End file.
